


The Last Days of Summer

by Bullfinch



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Kidnapping, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-29 18:19:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5137859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bullfinch/pseuds/Bullfinch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Trespasser. On the way to the villa to meet Bull, Dorian is attacked and taken captive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Another story in that time-honored tradition of hurting my favs. This fic may end up meriting a 'Graphic Depictions of Violence' warning in later chapters, so keep an eye out for that if it might turn you away.

The carriage stops.

That’s the first clue. The second is the silence from the driver. “What’s happened?” Dorian calls sharply.

No reply.

_Vishante kaffas._

He never takes an entourage to the villa; it’s best to keep the secret of his and Bull’s relationship limited to as few people as possible, lest one of his many enemies decides to use Bull against him. So that’s one precaution. Otherwise he has been rather incautious. His movements will not have been difficult to track—choosing assignments in the south of Tevinter, more specifically the southwest, close to the border…could they have found him out?

Yes, they could have. Dorian rises as best he can in the small carriage and allows the Veil to rise in his senses. It’s marred a little, past the front wall of the carriage. Someone’s just cast a spell there. The driver’s probably dead. He curses again in his head. That man died because of him. Not now, not now, there isn’t any time for guilt. He is under attack.

And alone. That complicates things. There are two options. The first is to fight back, of course, and pray they sent too few to stand against him. Right. As if they would have gone through the trouble to attack him in the middle of an enormous bloody forest without sending enough men. So if he can’t fight them alone, the second option is to call for reinforcements. Bull and the Chargers are his nearest allies, without a doubt, but the villa is still a few hours away.

Leave a trail, then. Or at the very least a sign. One these bastards can’t cover up.

The carriage doors fly open. Dorian sends a gush of flame through the gap.

Screams of pain. A pleasant surprise, but not what he’s looking for. The fire rushes forward, and he sweeps an arm, guiding it off the road and into the trees. He goads it, spurs it— _hotter, higher, more—_ commands it to rage and consume. The inferno catches, swirling joyously through the thin birches, turning their paper bark to ash.

There. He welcomes his foes to try and use their blood magic to cover up a forest fire. Not that he’s seen them use blood magic, they might be perfectly normal—

His muscles seize, twisting. Pain, pain—his legs buckle and bend, and he crashes to his knees, a band of tightness wrapping around his throat. He scrabbles at his neck to find nothing there, yet still he fights for air. Two mages before him, their hands out, blood dripping from their fingers. So very predictable. Dorian lashes out one more time with a vicious burst of flame, and they scramble back, their clothes alight, before they are relieved by yet more robed figures whose magic drags him down, pinning him to the floor of the carriage. He lies there, vaguely afraid his chest is about to collapse in on itself, although that won’t be the case. They don’t want to kill him.

“Put him out!” comes the barked order.

They want to capture him. If they kill him, a hundred possibilities all fly out the window. He’s going to be taken, and, much as it wounds his pride to do so, he stays where he is, not bothering to fight further. It isn’t worth whatever else they might do to him.

There’s an intense pressure behind his eyes, and spikes of pain drive out through his temples. He gasps with crushed lungs, his fingers curling, nails scratching the wooden floor of the carriage.

Then the world goes black.

——

When Dorian wakes he has a half-second of hazy confusion before the agony in his head splinters to life.

He hisses, curling up.  _Maker,_  that hurts. Perhaps they’ll give him a tincture for the pain, if he asks nicely enough.

A grunt. “The magister’s awake.”

Dorian squints up.

He’s lying on the floor, with his hands chained tight in front of him—much harder to cast like that, if he can’t pull on the Veil, gather it before him, twist and weave it to his liking. They’ve brought him to what appears to be a hunting cabin. “They” being the four mages gathered before him, in addition to the handful he assumes are out keeping watch. Dorian heaves himself upright and sits back against the wall. “Congratulations. You are now in possession of the most hated magister in the entire Imperium.”

They watch him, silent. He suspects probing for information may not be so easy. “I hope you’re not planning to ransom me, because if so, let me tell you, you will be  _sorely_ disappointed.”

“You’re not going to be ransomed.” The nearest mage, a bald man in robes of muted purple and red, sighs. “Not sure what’s in store for you, to be honest, but it’s certainly not a safe return. Still, if you behave, you’ll have a couple of days of peace, at least. So do us all a favor and don’t try anything stupid.”

A couple of days. Then he’ll be in the hands of their employer, no doubt one of the dozens of magisters whom he’s been frustrating at every possible step with whatever depraved legislations they’ve been trying to pass. Over the shoulder of the mage Dorian notes that the sun still shines bright through the window. Late afternoon. It’s unusual they’ve decided not to travel with so much light left, considering the proximity of a small but hostile force at the villa further south…

Oh. They’re going to take care of that force, or someone is. And then they’ll have a remote villa all to themselves where their employer can have some fun with Dorian, far beyond the reach of any of his allies in Minrathous. But it’s not the latter part he’s concerned about. It’s Bull. He always brings his core group with him just in case, and they sleep in the guest house while Bull and Dorian take full advantage of the villa itself. His core group, of course, comprising only a half-dozen bodies, and while they are indeed talented, blood mages are  _very_  difficult to counter.

It is for that reason he decides to attempt escape as soon as possible, just in case they haven’t been attacked yet, just in case there’s still time for him to warn them of the danger.

Dorian stays quiet for now, so as not to draw their ire. He sighs inwardly. This was supposed to be a much-needed getaway, a week-long romp to celebrate the last sweaty days of summer. Instead the man he loves is in imminent danger of being killed, and he himself is likely to be tortured to death or worse.

He expected to be a bit more panicked about the whole thing, but his time in the Inquisition did wonders for his nerves. Instead, he watches, and weighs, and plans.

——

As it turns out, his captors are really quite accommodating.

They leave him alone for the most part. They do feed him in the evening. He is not given a bedroll, but three years of tramping through forest and mountains and rocky highlands and even a desert or two has  _greatly_  increased his tolerance for uncomfortable sleeping situations, and he lies down without complaint. Not that he’s planning to sleep, of course. As the sun sinks down and cedes its hold to the night, the cicadas emerge, their raucous buzzing filling the trees.

Dorian lies on his side, his face turned toward the wall, and takes a deep breath.

They’re all crowded in here, a half-dozen sleeping mages, minus the one who was left outside to keep watch. There’ll be a change of shift in a few hours. But the Chargers might not have a few hours, so Dorian will have to do this during first watch, when his captors won’t be sleeping quite as soundly.

They’ve bound his wrists. That was a good start, and might have been enough; a single mage of any decent caliber could dismiss whatever fire or ice he managed to conjure up with his hands stuck together. But it appears they have not done their research. A (hopefully) fatal mistake. Normal casting ensures that the Veil bends to one’s will, shaping under the sweep of one’s arms. He cannot shape it as he is now. So instead he must ask someone else to do it for him.

Do they even know he is a necromancer? And if so, do they really know what a necromancer does? He guesses not. Tevinter is too proud, too quick to ridicule the magical traditions of other nations. He has heard the Mortalitasi described as obsolete, as power wasted. But he has studied their rituals, their traditions. He knows the arcane chants in Ancient Nevarran, a language now found only in ruins, or dusty academic libraries. Or the books of the dead.

Dorian’s lips move, his face tucked into his shoulder. He takes deep, harsh breaths. Speaking might wake the men sleeping closest to him; instead he hopes the rasp of air through his throat lends the words enough body to carry through the Veil to the spirits beyond. Past the wooden wall the cicadas buzz, an endless drone he uses to shroud his activities.

It takes time. The spirits must hear first, and then they must listen, and then they must agree. Perhaps that’s why Tevinter laughs at Mortalitasi magic, because the gratification is not immediate—far from it. But it does not require the use of his hands, and that is the important thing here.

The night descends. The Veil thins. A curious wisp drifts closer, hovering there, just out of reach. Dorian speaks to it, assembling the ancient phrases in his head. The sleepers around him might see it too as they wander the Fade in their dreams, but they will not hear Dorian. And they will not wake.

Dorian asks, wheedles, begs. He has not used this tongue for some time, but as he speaks he finds the words and phrases returning to him, and more, the cadences, the arch idioms and the conventions of courtesy. The spirit hovers, swaying gently in the Fade’s imperceptible ebb and flow. It is lulled by his voice. It enjoys the company.

Finally, it agrees.

Dorian shuts his eyes, the relief overwhelming him. Then he settles down to wait. It doesn’t take long. The Veil deforms a little, pressing inward. The friendly little wisp reaches through, grasping.

There. Dorian starts chanting again.

He finds his throat dry, his chest aching slightly from the deep breaths. But he must assist. Spirits are what one makes of them, after all, and he will make this one strong. Outside the cabin he hears a noise of surprise.

_Terror._

He hisses the word, and the wisp obeys, clutching at the mage’s spirit. Dorian doesn’t usually use a proxy to strike that effect into his foes, but it works well here. The noise of surprise is followed by a choked grunt of fear. Too frightened to scream. Good. It should distract him as well, weaken his resolve against the wisp.

It’s time. Dorian rolls over and rises.

Now for more mundane tactics. He creeps around the sleeping figures, careful not to step on any toes. Outside he still feels the Veil twisted, and he raises his arms and claws clumsily, bunching it up to one side. The wisp surges forward, dragging itself through, still latched onto the unfortunate watchman’s spirit. Dorian finds his heart is pounding so hard it almost hurts. He reaches the door and grasps the handle, then stops.

It’s going to creak, isn’t it? It’s going to creak, and it’s going to wake everyone up and all this will have been for nothing. Or it might not, true. But it  _will._  That’s just how these things go. So after he opens the door and it lets out the longest, most ear-splitting creak of any creak that has ever been made by any sort of door, gate, hatchway, or other hinged portal in all of Thedas, instantly waking every single mage in this room, he will need to be ready to run.

He turns the handle and pushes the door open.

It creaks. Not loudly. What a pleasant surprise. But it still creaks. Dorian glances over his shoulder. One of them is stirring.

He runs.

The Maker grants him about five seconds of silence before the shout goes up. By then he is in the trees. The cicadas buzz around him, masking the rustle of his boots in the leaves. Will he make it? The moon is bright, gleaming down through the birches, their shadows slipping over him as he sprints forward, like an endless parade of velvet curtains he brushes out of his way.

Shouting. Moving. They’re pursuing him. Of course they are. He can’t imagine what kind of punishment they’ll receive if they fail to recapture him. It’s all up to luck now, luck and how fast he can move his legs. He runs for his life, and for Bull’s.

Something catches his heel, a grasping hand. Dorian staggers but does not fall. They can see him.  _Venhedis._  He pushes himself onward. Harder to bend the Veil from further away, and even harder to do so with any precision. Distance is his greatest ally here. The white birches slip by on either side, a parade of thin ghosts that attend his passage. If only he could cast, if  _only._  He’d set this whole bloody forest on fire, and then they’d never catch him.

A missile of force clips his leg. He spins and falls to a knee, then clambers to his feet again and lurches onward. They cannot recapture him. They must not. Bull is in danger. Dorian runs. A gash appears in the trunk of a tree to his left, sliced paper bark fluttering to the ground. Run.  _Run._

His hip catches on a snag in the air. He staggers, hops, struggling to keep his balance. Then an invisible wave crashes over his back, and he topples forward, landing hard on one shoulder. No. He must escape. He must—

Searing pain shoots through him as his limbs seize and tighten so hard he’s afraid his joints will snap. He yells, then grits his teeth, choking back the noises of agony. Best to save those for later. He caught them off-guard and nearly escaped. He set a wisp on one of their own. And now they have him again.

This will be violent.

One of them kneels before him. The bald man in red and purple. “A wisp, eh? Nice trick. But a bad idea. I told you you’d be all right if you behaved. And then you had to go and do this.”

The intense pressure behind his eyes again, the spikes of pain through his temples. Dorian falls into the well of blackness eagerly, keen to escape any more pain.


	2. Chapter 2

The man is dead.

Dorian shuts his eyes briefly on seeing the corpse. He hadn’t expected the wisp to be that strong. But spirits are what one makes of them, and he was  _very_  desperate to escape. A bad mistake. They’ll take it out of him ten times over. “If it’s any consolation, I didn’t mean to kill anyone.”

Something between a grunt and a guffaw. “It isn’t,” the bald man replies. “What did you do, anyway? You were bound.”

A hard voice from the back. “Necromancy. Nevarran necromancy.”

_Kaffas._

“They can summon spirits just by chanting. Wisps, mostly. They put them in corpses. ’S what he must have done. We need to gag him.”

The bald man eyes Dorian, considering. “Gag him, you say?”

“Yes. If he can speak, he’ll just summon another.”

“But he did not speak. One of us would have woken. If a mere whisper is enough to accomplish this, I do not think a gag will be sufficient.”

Dorian allows himself a resigned smile. “Going to knock my teeth in? A crime to do that to a face as striking as mine, I must say—“

The bald man jerks his head. “Get him inside. Sit him down and make sure he can’t move.”

Dorian is herded into the cabin. Fight back? This might be his last chance. It won’t do anything. They’ll just hurt him more, sooner. Yet he remains tense, and they must push him into the wooden chair, must yank his wrists apart so they may be lashed to the arms. Even his hands are flattened, palm-up, and his fingers tied down. The fact that the inner surfaces of his wrists are exposed is not lost on him. An easy access point, if they wish to use his own blood against him. The mages are thorough, binding his chest and hips, his legs.

The bald man enters, holding in one hand something small and silver that reflects the flickering lamplight. In the other hand he holds a spool of thread—black and a little shiny. Treated. Wound thread. “Hold his face.”

A hand grasps him under his jaw, fingers indenting his skin. The bald man feeds out some thread, then lifts the small silver thing, squinting—

A needle. They’re going to sew his lips shut.

“Mm—“ Dorian jerks, but he’s well and truly bound now. For some reason it’s that thought, of having his lips sewn shut like a saarebas, that sends him reeling with terror. He’d thought of what they might do to him, beating, burning, cutting, using their vile brand of blood magic. That was all fine, all expected. He didn’t expect this. His very last defense, stitched closed. Sweat prickles over his back and forehead, and he jerks again without any further success, straining against the ropes that hold him.

“You may want to keep still.” The bald man kneels in front of him. “This doesn’t have to be messy.”

Dorian freezes and tries to control his breathing. His chest heaves, his heart beating as if trying to break free of his ribs. The fingers dig hard into his cheeks. The little needle approaches.

It pierces the skin beneath the corner of his mouth.

With one thumb, the man lifts his upper lip, maneuvering the needle, pushing it into the soft flesh there. Dorian feels the sliver of metal connecting briefly his upper and lower lips before the man pulls it all the way through, and then it’s just the thread, which he runs through the holes until the thick knot at the end digs into Dorian’s skin and the line tugs tight.

The man exhales. “Well, that’s one.”

Dorian flinches. A warm tear of panic slips from the corner of his eye.

The man works with great patience and care. With each stitch there is a little less thread to pull through Dorian’s flesh. A small mercy in a violative process. The man’s fingers manipulate his mouth, press into his cheek to ensure he keeps still. Tears spill hot from his eyes now, which is humiliating, yes, but he hardly thinks of it, can think only of how his lips press together, unable to open again. He cannot speak. He has been made docile, an animal leashed and muzzled. Or defanged, tooth by tooth until his mouth is soft and empty and useless. He cannot even communicate his basic needs.  _I am hungry. I am thirsty. I am in pain._  These simple things locked off and denied. He is a thing to them. A thing that weeps when they hurt it or scare it. Each second he is afraid he will suffocate, that he will not be able to draw enough air. He does, his chest rising, his lungs filling, but he is  _afraid,_  he is afraid, he is afraid…

At last the man ties the thread off, then wraps the trailing end around his fingers and breaks it. “There.”

Dorian sits there trembling, his lips sealed closed, his eyes flicking left and right. The mages surround him, staring down, waiting.

“Ferius.” The man nods to the mage standing behind him—young, with high cheekbones and thick, dark hair. Dorian might call him handsome if this situation weren’t so perverse. “You can do what you like, but nothing that can’t be healed.”

“What about scars?” Ferius murmurs.

“Fine.” The man waves a hand. “I’ll be outside. This sort of thing offends my sensibilities.”

Then he leaves the cabin. Two of the mages go with him. Two stay inside, with Ferius. Dorian sees the twisted hunger there, the absolute power that’s just been handed to them. Here, another person—a  _magister—_ bound and helpless in front of them, and they can do whatever they like, without any consequences. When will they ever have this kind of opportunity again? When will they ever be able to exert their will so completely, so decisively, so unopposed?

Terror seethes at the base of Dorian’s mind. He sinks in it, drowns in it.

They cut his clothing away. As they should. No respectable torturer leaves their victim clothed. No better way to make someone feel vulnerable. They hurt him in the ways he expected, not that the foreknowledge makes it any easier—it might have, before they sewed his mouth shut, when he was still able to react, to snap at them, to hiss in pain, to cry out, even to beg for a moment’s mercy. He is not allowed any of these anymore. He is a thing, and he belongs to them, and they can do all the damage they like. No one will stop them.

The slats of the chair back dig into his bare skin. He shivers, though the night is warm. The wounds are not deep, but they  _will_  scar, ringed by burned tissue. And there are plenty of them. He’s going to look like Bull after this.

Bull is dead. White-hot pain at his inner thigh, and Dorian whimpers, pulling against the ropes without avail. If not dead, then dead very soon. Because Dorian didn’t cover his tracks well enough, didn’t think anyone hated him  _quite_  this much. The burning disappears, though the pain lingers. How long will this go on? When will it be over? It won’t be. This is his life now, what’s left of it. Mostly he’s angry at himself, for not being more careful, for dragging Bull into this.

Burning at his hip. He jerks and tries to cry out, only for the thread in his lips to pull tight. That hurts too. Only a quiet whine escapes him. No, most of what he feels is not anger. It’s fear.

He shuts his eyes and prays to the Maker for aid, for even a short reprieve. There is no reply.

——

Bull crouches beside the kitchen doorway.

Across the threshold Rocky catches his eye and gives him a thumbs-up. Bull grimaces. It’s not that he doesn’t trust the traps to go off. It’s that he doesn’t trust them not to bring the whole damn villa down on all their heads.

Still, it’s the only plan they’ve got. Dalish couldn’t set wards more than a quarter-mile out—any further and she wouldn’t feel them trigger, she said—so when she woke them all up and told them the perimeter was broken, they had about two minutes to prepare for the assault. And with only seven of them here, they have to go big. Caution is more likely to fuck them over than recklessness.

So Bull waits, his axe balanced in his hands, and tries not to think about Dorian. 

Dorian’s late. Said he’d be here in the afternoon and wasn’t. Not a big deal, he’s been late before. But with someone advancing on the villa in the middle of the night…

Bull doesn’t like it. Doesn’t fucking like it. He needs to get out of here and go find Dorian, but first he’s got to fight off the assholes who are trying to kill him and his men. Past Rocky Skinner’s twirling a knife. She stops suddenly, cocking her head, and nods at him.  _They’re close._

The kitchen explodes.

A chorus of screams. Won’t be screaming much longer. Bull whips around the threshold and swings. He can’t see for crap—dust everywhere, and he squints his eye against it—but he feels the axe penetrate armor and bite into flesh. Good. One down. Now how many more of these fuckers does he have to kill before he can go after Dorian?

There’s heat at his shoulder as a burst of flame shoots past him. He turns with a snarl as the dust starts to clear and searches for the asshole who’s trying to set him on fire. Fighting’s fun on a normal day. He takes it seriously, of course, but it’s still fun. Not tonight. Dorian’s missing, and every second Bull wastes here is another second he’s not out looking. A shadow slips past him, through the settling dust, and there’s a squawk of pain. No more fire. Skinner’s good at what she does.

Two in the kitchen. Behind them he sees two bodies buried under the rubble from Rocky’s trap. Bull charges.

They’re ready now, and their weapons are raised. Doesn’t matter. They’re humans, they’re small, they can’t stop him. He hacks the first man’s sword down and nearly splits his shield in half with an axe-chop. Bull shoves the axe forward, and the spike at the tip takes the man under the chin and goes through his neck. The other one tries to attack while Bull’s weapon is stuck. Bull rotates his shoulders and swings the axe with the corpse still on it, knocking the guy to the floor and then stomping on his throat with one decisive heel.

 _“Who’s next?!”_  he bellows.

A few seconds premature. His axe is still embedded in the corpse at his feet. He steps on the guy’s chest and yanks. The axe comes free, and he lunges sideways and jabs out with the end of the haft. The soldier who’d been coming up on him almost flips over backwards as his nose explodes in a shower of blood. Bull finishes the job, a quick downward stab with the spike-tip. From outside the villa he hears a familiar battle shout. Krem.

This is taking too long. His lips curl back, and he ducks out of the kitchen.

Into the hallway, where Skinner’s standing over three corpses but two more guys are advancing on her. She isn’t a head-to-head fighter. Needs help. Sensing him behind her, she crouches, and Bull steps forward and jabs out over her with his axe, extending so far he has to release the haft with one hand.

A lot of Vints are trained in fighting Qunari. These two aren’t, or they would have expected it, expected the overwhelming range advantage that can’t be compensated for in a tiny fucking hallway, and they would have fucked off. Instead they stayed, and the one on the left jolts as the axe-tip punches through his friend’s cheek, raises his shield to block the blade that’s hovering just next to his head. Bull rolls his eyes. He’s embarrassed at the caliber of men they sent. Someone like this, against the Chargers? Someone who’s more scared of an axe that Bull’s barely holding on to anymore than the lightning-fast elf crouched two feet away?

Skinner kills the guy, and then they move on.

Out of the villa and into the night air. Krem and Grim are retreating back across the courtyard, with a dozen soldiers bearing down on them. Beyond there are corpses. Bull recognizes the types of armor, the ones who have mail under their cuirasses and the ones who don’t—the second group being mages, whose arms might get weighed down in mail, so they couldn’t cast as quickly. He doesn’t see any mages left standing. Didn’t expect to. The Chargers know that if the opportunity’s there, the mages  _always_  have to go down first.

So. A dozen guys with swords and shields. On any other day, this would just be cleanup, but Krem and Grim aren’t in armor—didn’t have time for it—so Bull stampedes forward, into the Vints’ flank.

A couple of them see him before he’s on them. Not that it matters. He cuts them down, opening up their chests, their backs, their sides. As soon as the soldiers become aware of him Krem and Grim step forward and take advantage. The soldiers don’t have time to form up, not with Grim fanning out to the right, Krem a little to the left, an ice wall blossoming into existence on the last unclaimed side, and just like that they’re boxed in.

It takes about fifteen seconds after that. Bull cleaves through the last one, breaking a weak parry and splitting the guy’s stomach open. Then he spins and roars,  _“Find me someone to question!”_

Skinner appears in the doorway with a captive, her knife jammed up under his chin. Grim and Rocky are sorting through the bodies in the courtyard. Krem hovers just off Bull’s shoulder. Probably because of the yelling. Bull doesn’t get angry, that’s just the way things are. Except he did, and he is. He  _really,_  really is. He grimaces, squeezing the haft of his axe, relaxing again. Doesn’t say anything to Krem. Might snap at him by accident, and that would just make him an asshole.

An exclamation of triumph from Rocky. He and Grim haul over another soldier, force him to his knees next to Skinner’s find. Bull comes over and considers them in the soft wash of moonlight. Rocky’s guy is pissed, while Skinner’s just looks scared.

Bull buries the spike of his axe in the first guy’s gut.

He screams, arches, and falls back. Bull leaves the axe there and crouches in front of the second guy. “Where’s Pavus?”

The first one’s still screaming. Probably will be for a little while. A gut wound’s not going to kill him right away. The second guy flinches, glances to his friend, looks back. “I don’t—I don’t know—“

Bull reaches out and strokes the guy’s face. Nasty hole in his cheek. Must be the one Bull stabbed in that hallway. Meant to hit the eye. Good thing he didn’t. Bull traces the hole with one thumb, jerks his head. “You want to end up like him?”

“No! No, please, I don’t  _know,_  I just—I think they’re close, we were with the others for a while, they only split off maybe ten miles out—“

The others. The ones going after Dorian. Fuck. Bull had hoped, maybe, it was all just a coincidence. It isn’t. “Where were you coming from?”

“Dalvoris, it’s northwest of here, we all came south through the forest. Then we kept going south, the others broke off to the east. That’s all I know, I  _swear._  Please don’t hurt me.”

Bull rises and nods at Skinner. She slits the man’s throat and lets him slump to the ground. Bull narrows his eyes at the other one, who’s still screaming. “Shut him up.”

He turns, and the screams cut off. Close, then, maybe. If they kept him here. If they didn’t grab him and leave. But they attacked the villa, too. Might’ve been eliminating possible pursuers, yeah. Or they might’ve been setting up here, clearing the area so they could come in.

Bull rubs his eyes. Fuck.  _Fuck._  It might be too late. Might not be. But might be.

“Chief? You all right?”

“Hm? Yeah, sorry.” He turns. Krem’s standing there, blood dripping from his nose, coating his lips and chin. Bull frowns and reaches out, tilts his face. “Hey, what happened?”

Krem raises an eyebrow and half-smiles. “It’s a bloody nose, Chief. You’ve given me worse yourself horsing around.” He pats Bull’s hand. “You’re not worried about me. You’re worried about Dorian.”

Bull exhales. “Fuck. Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

“We’ll find him.” Krem turns and calls out. “Dalish, Skinner, get the horses! Rocky, Grim, grab Stitches and pack up! We’re moving out in five!”

Bull scans the courtyard. Counting the ones inside, looks like about thirty guys total. They might’ve had a chance if Dalish hadn’t set those wards. He yanks his axe out of the corpse at his feet. He needs to repress this damn worrying. If the two groups split off ten miles out, they’re probably still at least a couple hours away, and if he keeps on worrying like this he’ll be a fucking wreck when he and the Chargers finally do find Dorian.

So he takes a deep breath and tries to empty his mind. Ben-Hassrath training. It kind of works. He’s getting rusty.

“Chief, you ready?”

Krem’s there, holding the reins of Bull’s horse. (It’s the biggest one.) “Yeah,” Bull grunts, and mounts.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Brief note on certain events in this chapter: a large burn can leak enough fluid to send someone into shock, just like massive blood loss. So that’s what’s happening, if it’s not clear.

They go at a canter. Don’t have time to comb the forest for tracks. All they can do is hope for something obvious—signs of a struggle, or something Dorian left behind to point the way. The moon is bright, and the moon-shadows of birch trees slip over them as they travel the narrow road. The journey is silent. The seven of them have been together for years—practically family now. So the Chargers can probably sense the tension that won’t let Bull go, the deferred panic, something that might even approach fear…

He wraps the reins around his hands, pulls them tight. They dig into his skin. Good. Gives him something to focus on besides what they might be doing to Dorian. What they might have done already. How long ago they killed him, or how long they’re waiting. Bull pulls tighter. Sharp pain, skin threatening to break. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.

They pass through the night. Clouds drift across the sky, shrouding the moonlight. The blackness gathers around them. As the hours go on Bull’s panic and the worry dull out, yielding to a battle calm. There it is. That’s what he needs. Impatience will make a guy sloppy, and any decent fighter will take advantage of that. He can’t afford any mistakes. Or maybe Dorian’s already dead and it doesn’t matter.  _Fuck._  Stop thinking about it.

As they come around a corner Krem reins in his horse. “Well, I think we found where they took him.”

The patch of forest before them is blackened, trees fallen. Dorian favors fire above any other discipline except maybe that creepy necromancy crap. The patch is twenty yards across, with clean edges. Like someone started a fire, and then someone else stopped it.

Grim is already off his horse, lighting a lantern. He raises it and goes to the treeline, motioning everyone else back. Bull dismounts and folds his arms. He can track in a pinch, but Grim’s better. Best to leave him to it. He leans down, scanning the forest floor, lowering the lantern as he stalks up the side of the road. Then he straightens and turns, beckoning.

Bull comes closer. He can see the trail through the ash. Footprints. “How many?”

Grim’s fingers flick up. Six, then two more. Between six and eight. Bull grunts. “Were they in armor?”

Grim shakes his head.

Mages. Probably all of them. Sending six or eight normal guys against a magister won’t get you anything but a cartload of corpses and a really pissed-off magister. Six or eight mages, on the other hand. That’ll get you pretty far. Bull finds he’s angry again. Fuck. Not the time. “Let’s go.”

They take a moment to strap in to their armor and lead the horses a couple of hundred yards into the trees before tying them up. Then Grim leads them forward, holding the lantern to the ground. Bull doesn’t like having a lantern lit—real good way for anyone with eyes to spot them coming from miles off—but with the moon clouded over, they need it, or they’ll risk losing the trail. The land is dead flat here, too, and these damn birches provide about as much cover as so many toothpicks. Bad situation. “Krem,” he murmurs. “Take Stitches, Skinner, and Rocky and fan out right. Those assholes see the lantern, they’ll come after the three of us, and you guys can go around and get to Dorian.”

Krem nods. “Good plan, chief, but you should go right and I’ll stay here.”

Bull lifts an eyebrow. “There’ll be blood mages, Krem. I’m better with those.”

“And you’re also worried sick about Dorian. It’ll be all right, I got Dalish to protect me.” He grins at her, and she raises her staff in acknowledgement.

Bull lets out a long breath. “Be careful, Krem.”

“I always am, chief.”

“No, you’re not.”

Krem pauses, leaving his grin in favor of something a little more serious. “I’ll be careful. Promise.”

Bull looks around at the Chargers. “That goes for all of you.”

Collected murmurs of “Yes, chief.”

While a half-dozen blood mages is pretty bad, it’s not the most dangerous situation they’ve faced. But losing Dorian, or almost losing him—or losing him—has Bull on edge. He goes right, Skinner at his heels, Stitches and Rocky just behind. Puts about thirty yards between him and the lantern before he tacks and goes forward again. The pace is slow, but that’s better than losing the trail. They glide through the night, keeping the lantern in their sights.

Then there’s a small, calloused hand on Bull’s arm. “Is that a light ahead?” Skinner murmurs.

He squints. Far off—it’s dim, and he’s not sure. But he trusts Skinner’s eyes.

A rustling from his left, a crash as a tree branch falls to the ground beside the other group. He sees Krem unship his maul and start sprinting forward. They’ve been noticed. “Let’s move,” Bull murmurs.

The dim light is at least a hundred yards away. Bull’s got the longest legs, he could get there ahead of the others, but running headfirst into a group of blood mages without backup is a great way to get killed so he takes it a little slower, focuses on stealth rather than speed. To his left bolts of fire fly through the air. That’s Dalish. The flames won’t cross that distance, but it’s a distraction, cover for Bull’s group. Fifty yards now. Bull thinks there’s a structure there, and the light a lantern seen through a curtained window. “Rocky. Get me in that house.” 

“On it.” He digs in his pack as they go, pulls out a small black lump, and plucks a match from behind his ear.

“Skinner, you go in with Krem and Grim. Stitches, try and stay out of it. We might need you.” Fifteen yards. Ten. Five. He and Stitches stop. Skinner keeps going, looping around the building—a cabin, hunter’s cabin, probably. Rocky goes forward and plants the lump at the base of the wooden wall at the rear of the building. There’s a tiny flicker of flame as he lights the match, and then he’s sprinting back.

The lump explodes.

Not very forceful—Bull barely feels it from where he’s crouched—but it does the job, making a gap in the wall. Bull charges forward and ducks through it.

The first thing he sees is Dorian, stripped and tied down, lips sewn shut like a saarebas. The second thing is the two mages flanking him. They gesture in synchrony, a pair of wide, sweeping arcs, and two curtains of blood burst from Dorian’s wrists and slap into Bull’s chest.

Bull loses it.

No. The choice presents itself to him. Is he a warrior, or a weapon? Is this a battle or a slaughter? He knows the choice is always there, but his answer is always the same. There isn’t much that scares him, but this does, what he becomes when he makes this decision. There’s a viciousness inside him, a brutality he used to control with the Qun. Since he lost that it’s been fitful at times, eager to make itself known. But he can still control it. If he chooses.

Acid burning on his chest. They sewed Dorian’s lips shut. They took him, they tortured him, they tore his wrists open to fuel their evil magic.

Bull chooses to kill them.

It’s not a fight. There are no tactics. He rushes forward. They strike at him again—he feels cuts opening up, a gouge in his hip, a second and third at his legs. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter how much they hurt him. They’re still going to die. He reaches the first one. The man tries to get away, but Bull lashes out and grabs a fistful of robes, yanks him closer. The man casts again, desperate. Bull staggers, his arm seizing. No.  _No._  They can’t control him. He can’t be controlled. His blood surges.

He bites into the man’s neck and rips out his throat.

Metallic and warm and soft. Bull swallows, tosses the body down. No time. There’s another one. With a roar he turns and charges. This one has been preparing, her fingers dripping red. She gestures.

A blast of force punches into him. He’s been hit by force magic before, but not like this. He hears the series of cracks as his ribs break and he spins, crashing to a knee.

Then he stands up again and advances.

Something drives him. The same thing that turns killing into a need rather than a goal. He will not be stopped. The woman cries out in surprise or fear, Bull doesn’t care, and he jams his fingers in her mouth, his thumb wrapped under her jaw, and snaps her head back. She crumples. More. He has to kill them. A sound from behind him. He whips around, his lips peeling back—

Dorian. Dorian. Trying to say something, not that he can with that thread sealing his mouth shut. Bull struggles to shift the savagery that’s driving him to  _move, hunt, kill—_ Dorian, it’s Dorian. He stumbles closer, gropes at his belt—there it is, the throwing knife, and he draws it—hands are shaking, fuck, don’t—don’t hurt him. Bull stills himself as best he can and slits the thread open.

Dorian heaves in a deep breath and starts coughing. “Bull, you—“ Another fit of coughing, but he shakes his head and then begins to spit out words in some language Bull isn’t familiar with. Which is impressive, considering how many he knows.

A shout from outside. Krem’s voice. Fuck. This isn’t over. Bull staggers to his feet and heads for the door.

Dark. He almost trips over something. Corpse. His heart seizes. Is it—no, it’s a Vint, with his skull smashed in. Krem’s work. Bull scans. Two mages left, hurling fire at Krem, Rocky, and Grim, who, true to their word, are being careful, hunkered down behind an ice wall. But the wall is melting fast. The throwing knife is still in Bull’s hand, and he cocks his arm back and throws it.

A miss. Got their attention, though. He ducks back inside the house as bands of electricity arc through the air. Then the sound of coughing drifts through the open door, and he sticks his head back out. Smoke gushes up around the mages. One of Rocky’s most reliable tricks. Bull takes a deep breath, holds it, and goes in. By the time he gets there Skinner’s already opened up one of their throats. Bull does the other, grasping the man’s skull, lifting and twisting.

Then he turns, staggers back toward the cabin. Dorian. Dorian.

Stitches is already there at Dorian’s side, swearing up a storm. “Grim, go back and find the horses! Skinner, get over here!”

She glides forward. Stitches jerks his head. “See this red wormy thing I’m pinching? You pinch it. I gotta fish out the other one.”

Skinner obeys, sticking her hand into the messy wound at Dorian’s wrist. Blood coats his hands, drips off the arms of the chair, joins the growing pools on the floor. Bull stands frozen by the door, as if he’s a spectator and this is a piece of theater unfolding before him, one he’s never seen. He doesn’t know what’ll happen next. Isn’t even sure what’s happening. Stitches digs around in the second wound. “Come on, you little fucker— _there._ Dalish!”

“Chief—“ Krem appears at his side, alarmed. “You’re hurt!”

“I’m fine,” Bull mutters absently.

“No you’re not! You look like someone just dumped a barrel full of acid on your chest!”

Stitches glances up. “Oh, that’s just great. Chief, can you stay alive for another five minutes? Because this one can’t unless I do something about it.”

“It’s still here.” Dorian tips his head back and, for some fucking reason, laughs. “It’s still bloody here. Bull, don’t be afraid of it, I’ve asked it to help.”

What is he talking about? Dalish pushes past. “You called?”

“Yeah,” Stitches replies. “I need you to stick these vessels back together.”

“I—I’m not a healer, I only just know the basics—“

“It has to be you. I can’t sew them up, they’re shredded. Just focus and take it slow.”

Dorian blinks tears out of his eyes. “Bull. You shouldn’t have charged in like that. You knew they’d be in here.”

It falls away, the odd distance between him and what’s happening here. The man he loves is dying in front of him. Dying. Bull stumbles forward. “Kadan—“

The burns are more evident as he gets closer, red holes in the flesh ringed by black and yellowish-white. How could they have done this? How could they have done this to him? Dorian’s breathing comes quick and shallow. “I thought you were dead,” he murmurs.

“I’m not. I’m here.” Bull kneels, tries to find a patch of flesh that isn’t burned so he can touch it, so Dorian knows he’s there. “You’re going to be all right. We’ll take you somewhere safe.”

Dorian laughs weakly. “I’m afraid I’ve lost rather a lot of blood.”

“Kadan, no—“ Bull reaches up and strokes Dorian’s face, the cheek without the blackened hole gouged into it. “No. You’re going to be fine.”

To his right Stitches swears again. “Rocky, I need two tourniquets. Be quick about it!”

“Amatus,” Dorian whispers. “It has been my greatest privilege to be loved by you. I wanted to be with you until the end of both our days. Please take care of yourself. Perhaps many years from now, we’ll see each other again.”

 _“Dorian!”_  Bull rises and kisses him— _gently_ , gently, careful of his pierced lips. “Kadan, you’re going to live, we can get old together just like you wanted. Kadan, my heart. Stay with me.”

Dorian’s eyes drift shut.

Bull stands there, holds his face, waits for him to wake. He doesn’t wake. Then someone’s tugging him back. “Chief, I need to wrap those wounds.  _Now.”_

“I can’t leave him,” Bull mutters.

“There’s nothing more you can do for him right now. Just leave it to Stitches and Dalish, all right?” Krem pulls him away from Dorian. “Get your armor off, leave the rest to me.”

Bull lets himself be guided away. Krem digs in Stitches’s pack and comes up with a fat roll of bandages. He snatches up the canteen from the side and soaks the entire roll before coming over. “Chief, lift your arm.”

Bull obeys. He doesn’t want to be here. Doesn’t want this to be happening. Dorian’s head is slumped forward on his chest. How long have they been together? Five years now? How could that be enough?

Krem lets out a startled squawk. Bull blinks.

There’s something in the cabin. A glowing ball of light, hovering in the air. Fuck. Bull gropes for his axe, feels his broken ribs shift, gasps in pain.  _That_ hurts. Somehow he didn’t notice before.

Krem points and backs away. “Dalish, please tell me that belongs to you.”

She glances up, annoyed. “No, it doesn’t. But it’s nothing to be afraid of, it’s only a wisp.”

“Nothing to be afraid of? What if one of these mages summoned it to—I don’t know, make us think it’s harmless, and then have it kill us all in our sleep?”

Dalish heaves a sigh. “You don’t  _summon_  a wisp. You can make way for it by thinning out the Veil—they’re small, it’s not hard for them to pop through—but they’re not like demons, they really don’t care about our world. It  _might_  cross over if you’re lucky, but it’s just as likely to simply wander off, if not more so. Now if you please, I’m trying to—“

“No,” Bull says. “I’ve seen Dorian summon them, plenty.” Remembers his arms sweeping as if opening up a pair of double doors, his lips moving, and then the little globe of light would appear. This one bobs closer. Bull starts and stumbles away until his back hits the wall— _ribs,_  fuck, they hurt—but the wisp keeps advancing. And then—

He feels warm.

The acid burn from Dorian’s blood is an enormous wound. The skin over most of his chest and abdomen is gone, and the whole mess is leaking blood and clear fluid. But at the wisp’s touch the blood starts to dry up and clot, and the fluid solidifies into yellow crystals.

_Bull, don’t be afraid of it. I’ve asked it to help._

“Damn it, Dorian, I don’t  _need_  help!” Bull’s fist slams into the wall, making Krem flinch. “Dalish, tell it to help him instead!”

“Wisps are dumb as posts, I can’t talk to it!” she snaps.

“Dorian can,” Bull growls.

“Yes, and I’m not a necromancer, thank you very much. Or a healer, Dread Wolf  _take_  me, all right, let’s try this again.”

Bull’s wound continues to crystallize. Fucking useless. Krem’s unrolling the bandages, but Bull pushes him away and goes to Dorian again, drawing a second throwing knife from his belt. “Kadan,” he mutters, kneeling, the blood on the floor soaking into his trousers. “You shouldn’t have done that. You need this thing more than I do.” He starts cutting away the ropes binding Dorian’s legs, kisses his knees. “Take care of yourself for once, Dorian. For once.” Cuts away the ropes at his hips. “I need you here. Stay with me, kadan.”

There’s no response. Not that he expected one. He reaches out, holds Dorian’s face. The sliced ends of the thread still ring his mouth. Get those out. Have to get those out. He tries, plucking at the little lines of black. But he can’t grab any of them—his fingers are too damn big, and shaking, his hands are shaking—

“Chief.” Krem guides Bull’s hands away. “Let me try.”

He’s taken off his gauntlets, and he lifts Dorian’s lips with care, drawing out the threads. Tiny spots of blood well on Dorian’s skin. Bull sits on his heels and stares. He’s helpless here. There’s nothing he can do. Did Dorian know? Did Bull tell him, or show him, how important he was? How much Bull cared about him? “Fuck,” Bull whispers. “Don’t leave me, kadan. There’s too much left for us. I’m a better man with you. We’re so good together. I need you here.”

Then the warmth leaves Bull’s chest, and he shivers a little. From his right there’s a startled “Oh, dear,” from Dalish. Bull glances over. The wisp is hovering at her shoulder now. Her eyes widen. “Oh, I—oh. Well. Let me try one more time.”

She presses her fingers once more into the wound, and there’s a faint green-white glow. A smile breaks out on her face. “There, that’s better.”

“You’ve healed him?” Bull asks urgently.

“Yes. This thing showed me what I was doing wrong. All right, that should hold. I’ll fix the other one.”

The wisp rises, winding around Dorian in slow circles. Seems like it’s switched targets. Krem grabs Bull’s arm and tries to drag him back again. “Chief, I  _really_  need to wrap that wound up.”

Bull staggers to his feet, his blood-soaked trousers sticking to his knees. Krem directs him, moves his arms, wraps his chest and stomach in the wet bandages. Bull blinks and shakes his head. He’s getting dizzy. “Hey, chief,” Krem says. “Maybe you should sit down.”

“Get him to drink some water!” Stitches barks. “Maker, what a bloody mess.”

Bull sinks down against the wall. His ribs hurt, a dull throb that seems to reach all the way down to his toes. Krem presses a canteen into his hand and he drinks, not really knowing why. All he can think of is Dorian and the pool of blood on the floor. Then Stitches is kneeling in front of him. “Shit. We’re gonna have to be careful when we get going. I’ll have Grim and Rocky ride on either side and make sure he doesn’t fall off his horse. Krem, can you take Dorian with you?”

“Right.”

“Kadan,” Bull murmurs.

Krem pats his arm. “We’ll take care of him, chief.”

Bull reaches out and grasps Krem’s hand. “Thank you.”

Krem gives him a smile. “No need for that.”

Through bleary eyes Bull watches them wrap up Dorian’s wrists and cut him free from the chair. Then Grim ducks in with a set of clothes under his arm—his own clothes, a little big for Dorian, but they’ll do the job. Krem hauls Bull to his feet and helps him out the door. Bull tightens his jaw against the pain in his ribs—doesn’t know if he’s ever had this many broken at once, at least not all on one side. But he can still breathe okay, which is the important part.  

Because they have to get out of here. No telling when more of these fuckers will show up.

“Nevarra,” Bull says. “We go to Nevarra.” It’ll be rough—at least a day of riding to the south. But the Vints will be reluctant to cross over the border. It’s the safest plan. “Grim, can you get us there?”

Grim glances up. The sky is just beginning to purple with the first hints of dawn, light welling in the east. He grunts and nods.

The first time Bull tries to mount his horse he fails, his strength drained. Fuck. Maybe he’s worse off than he thought. Then Krem comes over to help, and Bull manages to get on and stay on. For a moment he just hunches, his arm curled around his chest, trying to breathe.

“Chief? You need something for pain?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“Look, we all know you’re a tough bastard, you don’t have to prove it to us.”

He cracks a grin. “It’ll keep me awake during the ride.”

Krem shrugs. “Suit yourself. You change your mind, just give us a yell.”

Grim and Stitches lift Dorian onto Krem’s horse. He’s still unconscious, but the wisp hasn’t left, and it circles around him like a watchdog. Bull thinks that’s a good thing. Might be awkward to explain when they hit civilization, though.

They go south.

He notices Grim and Rocky riding tight on either side of him. They might be strong enough to catch him if he starts listing to one side. Depends on how much he lists. He’s pretty heavy. Krem rides ahead, arms wrapped around Dorian. That hurts too, seeing Dorian’s body boneless and unmoving.

_Is he going to live?_

Bull knows better than to ask. Can practically hear Stitches grumbling,  _there’s no way to tell._ And with a spirit in the mix—who fucking knows? As they go Bull presses his fingers into his ribcage, counts the broken ones. His bones don’t break easy—they’re bigger than a human’s, after all—but ten of the fourteen ribs on his left side are at least cracked. Most are just plain snapped—he can feel the lumps under his muscles, where the ends overlap each other.  _Fuck._  They’ll heal, he knows that. But it won’t be fun. And the ride definitely isn’t helping.

Still, he’s awake. That’s something.

Nothing left to do but worry. Bull tries to suppress it, automatically, calls on his Ben-Hassrath training to empty his mind.

It doesn’t work. Not even close.

——

Clematis.

It grows in the south, thick cascades of green, leafy vines exploding with white-purple flowers, lain like tapestries over garden walls or wreathed through trellises until the wood underneath disappears completely. In late summer the sweet scent gushes out of the blooms, light and full, and it lingers for weeks as the summer heat wells thick over the earth and the peeping of the little pond frogs, the trilling songs of bright-feathered birds, the buzzing of the cicadas all pour forth in one last hurrah before the autumn falls upon them…

Dorian opens his eyes.

For a moment he simply stares at the ceiling. There’s a wall to his right, with an open window through which the warm breeze carries a stray petal in purple and white. Something’s digging into his back. He tugs at it, and it comes undone. A knot of blanket.

Where is he?

He thinks very hard. Last he recalls, he was dying and Bull was begging him not to. Ah. What a pleasant memory. So if he  _was_  dying, the logical conclusion is that he is now, in fact, dead. The sweet scent of the clematis supports his theory that he has indeed been taken to the Maker’s side to live in peace and comfort from now until the end of days, although that sore spot at his back where the blanket bunched up under him rather implies otherwise.

Why is there a blanket, anyway?

He tries to lift his head and fails. So he steels himself and tries once more. It’s incredibly difficult. There. He’s in a bed. Where did he get a bed? Maybe he really is at the Maker’s side, and the knot at his back was just an affectation of reality. That clematis scent really is quite sublime. He drops back down and looks to his left.

Bull.

Asleep in a chair. Dorian reaches out with one bandaged hand and grasps his knee, which wakes him. Rather rude, now that Dorian thinks of it. Ah well, too late. Bull stirs, rubbing his eyes. Then he freezes.

“Kadan.” He leans down, strokes Dorian’s face. “Kadan. You’re awake.”

His entire upper body is swathed in bandages. Dorian remembers now, the blood lashing out of his own wrists, splattering on Bull’s chest and burning through his skin. Dorian tries to speak and coughs.

“Hey, hey, take it easy. Let me get you some water.”

Bull rises. He favors one side—the one that mage struck in the cabin. Must have shattered his ribs. Nothing to be done about broken ribs, unfortunately. Still, to see the man he loves in pain sets off a pang in Dorian’s chest. He struggles to sit up as Bull returns. “How are you healing?” he rasps.

Bull lifts him up, helps him sit against the wall. “I’ll be just fine. Don’t worry about me.”

“You always say that, and I always do.” He tips the earthenware cup, Bull still holding it, and water spills into his mouth. Just a little. He swallows carefully and manages not to hack it all back up. “Where are we?”

“Nevarra. Little town just over the border.”

“Mm. Smart.” Dorian gazes into the cup, thinking. “Er—out of curiosity, how did I not die? Because I was very much headed that way.”

Bull shifts. “You know that wisp…thing…you summoned? It latched on to me.”

Dorian takes another sip of water. “Yes, I asked it to help you. I’m sorry, I know you aren’t especially fond of spirits and their ilk.”

“Well, I was pissed you didn’t tell it to help you instead, and then I—I was trying to get the thread out of your lips, but my fingers are huge so Krem pushed me away and did it himself. And I was just kind of sitting there when the wisp jumped over to you.”

Dorian raises an eyebrow. “It did what?”

“Hey, I’m only telling you what I saw.”

“Yes, it’s just—wisps aren’t intelligent. I spoke to it in Ancient Nevarran, but that’s really more of a signal than anything, they recognize the words and the tone and all that. After they’ve crossed over, they’re just a much weaker version of a true spirit. I don’t understand what could have caused it to deviate from my instructions. I suppose,  _maybe,_  if it were interacting with you, and saw something in you that was very striking…” Then he trails off. Oh.

Bull shrugs. “Anyway, it hung around for a while, but it kept getting dimmer and it went out just before we got here. Dalish said it ran out of magic and…I don’t know. Died, or something? Can spirits do that?”

Dorian’s quiet for a moment. Then he lowers the cup and takes Bull’s hand. “Spirits reflect what they see in others.”

“Uh-huh.”

“This one died to save me.”

Bull stares for a moment. Then he half-grins. “Dorian, you know how I feel about you.”

“Yet still I find myself humbled by it.” He leans forward and kisses Bull. “Would you come here a moment?”

So Bull climbs onto the bed, and Dorian crawls between his legs and curls up against him, careful not to touch his injured side. He sighs. “I suppose our little getaway is a bit ruined now, isn’t it?”

“We’ve still got a few days left. Uh—also, we’re going to need to find another place to meet. I sort of had to blow up the villa.”

“You blew it up? Do you know how expensive it was?”

“Yeah, sorry.” He kisses Dorian’s hair. “We were under attack.”

Dorian sighs. “Well, how is this town you’ve dropped us in, then? Is there a spa? A theater, perhaps? Is it home to a Nevarran chef known throughout the land for their incredible skill and palate?”

“No, not really. But they do have these fantastic cakes—they make this cone out of cheesecloth and then squeeze dough out of the end so it looks all tangled, and then they fry it and cover it with cinnamon and sugar. Krem can’t stop eating them. Rocky dips them in ale, which is kind of weird, but hey, who am I to judge?”

“Fried cakes, you say? I suppose that’ll just have to do.” Dorian turns his face into Bull’s chest. “It can’t be any worse than the first day of our holiday, anyway.”

“Dorian, what they did to you—“

He breaks off. Dorian looks up. “Bull, it’s all right. I’m all right.”

“They sewed your lips shut. They tortured you. You don’t have to be all right after that.”

It’s true. The very thought of returning to Minrathous to resume his duties in the Imperial Senate, knowing all the while that one of those bastards had him kidnapped and tortured and had plans for more…

“Maybe I’ll take an extra week or so,” he mumbles.

“I’m here for you, kadan. As long as you need me.”

Bull’s arms wrap right around him. He feels a bit cocooned, but it’s nice. He’s safe here. “Incidentally,” he remarks, “I’m very glad you didn’t die.”

Bull chuckles, his chest rumbling. “Me too. Then I would never have gotten to try those cakes.”

“Oh, you keep going on about them and now I’m hungry.”

“Do you want to go get some?”

“Please.”

“Here, I’ll help you stand.”

Dorian isn’t quite steady on his feet, but if he clutches Bull’s hand like a wizened old man, he can walk well enough. “Amatus?”

“Hm?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, kadan.”

Dorian doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of hearing that. With his hand clutched in Bull’s, he shuffles out the door.


End file.
